I click on the link. It takes us to an article from the Tribune dating back five years, about the ground breaking for Phase One of the Lakefront Project. The article celebrates the project as the savior of our city that would bring tourism and industry back into Chicago.

My hands shake as Adam leans over and hits command-print on the keyboard.

“Recognize anyone else?” Adams whispers, like we’re on the verge of uncovering the city’s most dangerous secret. Like who heads the Death Mob.

I’m filled with such an adrenaline rush I can barely read the names listed below the picture: Frank Davies, Maximilian Horowitz, Daniel London, Edward Cunnings, Bill Morrell, Clyde Jennings, and Harry Hewitt. All the men stand in suits in a kind of semicircle. They have the same smile spread across their faces and seem to share in some kind of comradery.

I don’t know any of them. I shake my head before looking up at the circulation desk. Both library assistants are absorbed with their computers. Before a social worker or principal comes to whisk me away to a private room where I can discuss my feelings on the tragedies of my life, I need to at least figure out who the rest of these men are.

“You take the first three.” My words are breathy, barely audible, but Adam picks up on it.

“What are we looking for?”

“I don’t know.” And I don’t. I wish I had at least four more hours to research each of these men.

“Frank Davies,” Adam says as he skims through his findings on the iPad, “is the general superintendent and CEO of the Chicago Park District.”

I blink, unable to add it all up.

“He had”—he pauses to read—“a scandalous divorce from a very wealthy woman before remarrying someone half his age—a few years older than his daughter, who looks our age.”

“Edward Cunnings,” I say, scrolling through the links that come up when I google him. “Owns a lumber company in the burbs.” I click the first link and keep skimming. “He worked on the first eighteen homes to line Lake Michigan in Phase One of the project.” I return to the search results and click on the fourth link down. “One of his sons committed suicide two years ago.”

I read more closely. Jamie Cunnings was sixteen and went to a nearby private school. From his picture, he looks handsome—the kind of kid who could get away with anything based only on his looks. He doesn’t look the type to commit suicide. Of course, they never do.

Just as I’m about to search my next guy, I see Mr. Mater walk into the library.

I nudge Adam, who sits up straighter in his chair.